


Don't Read the Comments

by not_who_we_are



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, film blogger au, internet relationship sort of, meet cute, so much movie talk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:04:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 15,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_who_we_are/pseuds/not_who_we_are
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Earnest and optimistic film reviewer Charles Xavier believes all cinema deserves to be celebrated. Blogger E. Lehnsherr is just as in love with the medium, but slightly less positive.</p><p>With similar passions, the pair ought to be as thick as thieves.<br/>Oh, but the internet can be like the Wild West, and the quickest way to hurt feelings is by wading through the comments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another attempt to meld my passions: film critique and this fandom. 
> 
> Big thanks to the incomparable [Betty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Betty/pseuds/Black_Betty) for helping me suss out the guys' cinematic personalities. You're a peach!

“I think I hate him.” 

“Hmm?”

“Really. I might actually hate him. I mean, as much as you can hate a Twitter account. Mind you though, it’s a particularly pompous account.”

Charles waited for Raven’s response. Their video chat was hidden behind his multiple open browser windows. He clicked around, making her full screen. Then he stared at her.

“You minimized me?” Charles’s pitched his voice in the most offended tone he could muster.

“Huh?” She looked up and into her webcam. “Oh! Sorry. I was working on school stuff.”

Charles pouted, his crinkled chin and down turned lip meant to illicit his sister’s well deserved guilt.

“What?” She launched the word like a missile, clearly unaware she was supposed to feel terrible for ignoring him. “You were ranting again. I don’t do well with ranting.”

“I was not _ranting_ , Raven. I was simply venting. To my sister. My only sister. A sister that loves me and is supposed to listen to my rant—”

“Ah ha!” She cut him off. “You admit it then!”

“Admit what?” Raven’s narrowed eyes stared out at him from his laptop. “Fine. Yes. I was ranting. But Raven, this guy—”

“The one you’re obsessed with?”

Charles gasped, appalled. “I am certainly not… Why would you even… How could you…” He trailed off.

“Because every time we talk you go on at least one _rant_ ,” she raised her eyebrows to accentuate the word, “about him. You also set a Google alert. You also get texts when he tweets. You also—”

“That’s enough. Thank you.” Charles paused, attempting to conjure up some kind of argument. “It’s professional interest. Simple as that.” He was less than convincing.

Raven scoffed. “You’re obsessed with him.” Charles frowned. “Professionally,” she added with a smirk.

“’Obsessed’ tends to indicate that I enjoy him in some manner, be it personal or professional. If you had been _listening_ to me, you would have just heard me declare my venomous hatred!”

“Uh huh. Send me his Twitter.”

Charles frowned, again. “I’ve sent you it before.”

“Was I supposed to bookmark it?” she huffed. “Jeez, Charles, if he’s as awful as you say, I’m not going to _follow_ him.”

Before she was done with her sentence, he had pasted the URL in the chat box and fired it away. Charles watched her eyes roam the freshly opened page as she scanned his feed. 

“OK. What? He’s talking about some indie horror film that got distribution…” Her lips moved minutely as she read. He could hear her mouse clicking faintly in the background. “So now he’s arguing with some director? That’s sort of annoying…”

Charles added in his two cents. “It is. He wrote this really scathing piece. He attacked the film’s director rather viciously. If memory serves, he used terms like ‘blind hack’ and ‘Tarantino wannabe.’”

Raven cringed, still scrolling. But when her eyes widened to the size of saucers, he knew she’d found _the_ tweet. 

“Wait wait wait wait… He called ‘Iron Man 3’ _pedantic_?”

Charles nodded, both pleased and vindicated by the incredulous tint to her voice. “Keep going.”

She read quickly, her tone breathy and rushed. “’Both Paltrow’s character and performance are completely throwaway.’ Completely throwaway! What the fuck’s this guy’s problem? Where’s his review of the movie? Send me a link.”

“No review.” Charles said simply, as if that was, on its own, proof of something. “Unless you count the 20 or so tweets he unleashed after his initial viewing.”

Raven made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. “If he didn’t even get an invite to a preview screening, he must not be _that_ important.” 

Charles knew his sister well, and waited patiently as she scrolled back through his timeline, to the top on the page. Her lips silently formed the words before she exclaimed, “30,000 followers!”

“You know I’ve shown you this before, right?”

“Yea, but I probably wasn’t paying attention.” She waved her hand toward the camera dismissively.

“But now you care because?”

“Because you care.” Charles inclined his head expectantly, and Raven reluctantly added, “and because he’s shitting on Gwynnie. Please tell me he didn’t say anything about my Robert. I’ll murder him with my bare hands.”

“I think your beloved escaped unscathed. I just can’t stand this guy. He’s so self-righteous. Like he’s all that stands between summer blockbusters and the death of ‘real cinema.’ I hate that attitude. Who is he to dictate what’s worthy of intelligent critique?”

Raven was still clicking around. Her eyebrows shot up and she looked directly at him through the illuminated screen, bright eyes twinkling across the distance. “He writes for Twinge Film?”

“Yup. Make no mistake, he’s a competent writer. A great writer, actually. It’s just his tone...” Charles groaned.

“Then why do you internet stalk him if he’s so groan-inducing?”

“I hate myself? And,” Charles added hastily, “I am not stalking him.” 

“You’re not jealous are you?” Her tone softened slightly and took on a genuine, warm note. “You’re an amazing writer, Charles.”

“No, and thank you, but,” he hesitated, “it’s not exactly that.” And in truth, it wasn’t that Charles was jealous. He was more perplexed. Perhaps even disheartened. He sighed. “It’s not that at all. He just spits vitriol. I don’t understand his legions of followers.”

“Well, you follow him.”

“It’s professional…” Charles began to defend himself but acquiesced quickly, because she had a point. He was one of the 30,000. And more than a few of the hundreds of comments on the man’s reviews were from Charles himself. “I suppose he fascinates me.” 

Charles flattened his palms against his face, fingers digging lightly into his scalp. The cool, clammy skin of his palms helped fight the flush that was rising on his cheeks. Why was he so aggravated about this? 

“You should just unfollow this… E. Lehnsherr? Ugh. Is his handle really his last name, first initial?” Raven echoed from his speakers.

“I think he’s trying to be professional,” Charles said through cupped fingers. “And you’re right, I should.”

He knew he wouldn’t.


	2. Chapter 2

“Why don’t you block them, dear?”

“Who?” Erik shot over his shoulder.

“Whomever you’re furiously typing to?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because, you look like you’re ready to burst a blood vessel.” Emma hovered just behind him while Erik hunched even further over his keyboard. He noticed he _was_ typing rather furiously. 

Uncurling his spine and straightening his shoulders with a _crack_ , he turned his head, “I can’t just _ignore_ them though.”

“Can’t you?” Emma knew the answer already and was unsurprised when Erik didn’t respond. She began to wander around the living room aimlessly. The heels of her ivory boots clacked as she entered the attached kitchen. She spun around and made her way back to where he was seated. 

“You’re pacing,” Erik said, without looking up from his laptop.

“Am I?” Emma twirled around again and headed for the kitchen.

“Yes. It’s distracting.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she drawled. “It’s just that, when you said we’d go to lunch, I assumed we’d actually be going to lunch.”

“Are you starting to pick up an accent?” Erik ignored her complaints, still clicking, and typing, and fuming at his screen.

“No. Are you?”

“I think you are. I heard a little twang there. Are you gonna start saying ‘y’all’?”

“I could ask you the same,” she replied, unamused by his attempt to change the subject. “Besides, no one in Austin has an accent. Especially not the transplants.”

She was right, and Erik’s attempt to distract her with a playful argument was obviously not going to work. “Just let me finish this.”

Emma exhaled deeply though her parted lips. “Can’t eviscerating this poor soul with 140 characters wait until _after_ we eat? Some of us have to get back to work.”

Erik threw her a murderous glance just as an email notification popped up, innocently signaling from the right hand corner of his screen. He clicked it open. 

A sound began to rumble in his throat, low and angry. When it finally exited his body, it was nothing short of a growl. His lip curled, baring gleaming teeth caught in a wet snarl. 

Emma rolled her eyes, arms folded neatly across her chest. “What now?”

“New comment notification,” he grunted.

“Personal blog or Twinge?” Emma knew the drill. They were never getting out of here.

“Twinge.” He was reading and rereading, body tensing as the adrenalin started to flow.

“On?”

“’Man With the Iron Fists’ review.”

Emma scowled. “Isn’t that old?” 

“Reposted when it hit DVD.” His answers were curt, but this was not new to Emma. 

“So you’re going to ignore it, right? So we can go eat food? To sustain life? So you don’t die here, glued to that damned computer?” She knew she was wasting her breath. He wasn’t paying attention. 

“This idiot!” Erik exclaimed, throwing his head back and his hands up in the ultimate display of incredulous frustration. 

“Mhmm?” Emma was waiting for the flood. Whether she liked it or not, she was going to end up the sounding board, so she battened down the hatches.

“Ha! Listen to this: While I agree with your contention that many of the performances were weak, I can not agree with your description of Russell Crowe as ‘bloated and clearly disoriented.’ Nor do I think that he ‘probably wandered onto the wrong set.’” Erik let out a laugh that was completely absent of humor. “What movie was this asshole watching?” he asked no one, even though Emma stood mere feet from him, seething with growing agitation. 

Erik moved closer to the screen, reading again, searching the words, committing them to memory before firing off a blistering response. 

“So he liked the movie?”

“I don’t know. Yea?”

“And you didn’t?”

“No. It was awful.”

“And you’re all riled up because he disagrees with you?” She paused before adding, “or sort of disagrees with you.”

“Huh?” Erik’s long fingers were flying across the keyboard with a fury reserved for only the most rage driven replies. “Sort of?”

“Read it again, hun. He said he agreed with you.”

The sound of the keys being struck with alarming force was the only answer she got. 

Emma reached for her satchel, and slung it over her shoulder. She began to slink towards the door, certain Erik wouldn’t notice until a mumble about a new internet slight he’d suffered fell on deaf ears. As she passed it, one of the bedroom doors creaked open.

“Oh, goodie, the cavalry,” she mewed dryly. 

“Is it safe?” Sean popped his head out, light red curls half obscuring his face.

“Yes, our Erik was just about to put his laptop down and eat some actual food. Weren’t you, dear?” she called into the living room.

Sean softly closed the door behind him, creeping into the hallway as Emma made her retreat.

“He’s in a mood?” Sean asked before she’d slipped out.

“Sugar, he’s always in a mood.”


	3. Chapter 3

“No, Raven, that’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” She grinned out from the glowing screen, long golden tendrils streaming down her shoulders. 

“The _attitude_. You know. The way in which?”

“But you hated that movie.”

“Again, not the point. He was just mean. You don’t need to be offensive when reviewing a film. In fact, you _shouldn’t_ be. It’s not professional.”

“But that thing, about Crowe being bloated? I laughed my ass off at that.” Raven snorted, covering her mouth with her hand.

“Yes, as did his other cronies. And, I’m sorry, but Russell was very sexy in that film.” Charles gave her a pointed look, almost a challenge. 

She wilted a bit under his near paternal gaze. “OK, fine, I’m as bad as the 40,000—”

“30,000,” he corrected with the wag of a lone finger.

“30,000. Sorry. But yea, count me as one of the negativity loving masses then.” She shrugged, her eyes wide and innocent. 

Charles hated how adorable she could be when she wanted absolution.

“Back to my original point…” He paused to make sure she was still paying attention to him and not fiddling with some other window she had open. “His reply was almost the same length as the original review! He also called me a moron at least three separate times. Oh, and some other commenter said they, how did they put it, ‘hoped I got run over by a school bus’?”

Raven snorted again.

“That’s not funny, Raven.” But he couldn't help join in when her giggles matured into cackles. Wiping an errant tear away he asked, a little short of breath, “Do you want your brother to get hit by a bus?” 

The absurd query chased away any control they’d managed to summon back, peels of laughter bouncing off his almost bare walls. 

“I miss you,” she said once they’d composed themselves. Her words were heavy with sadness, and Charles’s heart sank as she placed her fingers to the computer screen, where his face would be.

“I miss you too, love. But this is the way it is right now. LA is where I need to be, and New York is where you need to be.”

Raven sucked on her lower lip in an attempt to keep it from sticking out in childlike misery. “I’ll come visit over winter break. Is that still OK?”

“Of course it is. I can’t wait.” His smile was genuine and lasted until Raven spoke again.

“It’s just a shame we spend 80% of our Skype chats talking about E. Lehnsherr.”

“It’s not _him_ , Raven! Are you not listening? It’s what he represents! Manipulating reviews to get site traffic? Snarky headlines just to get hits? For someone who claims to love cinema as much as he does, he’s awfully quick to dismiss a huge portion of it.” He paused for a long minute, looking at his pile of books.

Truffaut, Kael, Ebert, Godard… What would they think of this new breed of “criticism”? Or am I fooling myself, Charles thought. As with anything, snark and venom had always existed in cinema discussion. It was the anonymity of the internet; it ramped things up. And people, well people wanted to be entertained; they wanted quick bites of information and then they wanted to move on. Bonus points if it was funny. And mean-spirited jabs were what counted as funny. 

Charles drove some traffic to the site he wrote for. But, and the irony was not lost on him, it was a pop culture blog, and people went there for the celebrity gossip. They were looking for snide commentary about Jennifer Aniston’s relationship, which was shocking because why were people still looking for Jennifer Aniston? When was the last time she made a movie? But that wasn’t the point. The point was, even though he may have been tasked with tackling the most innocuous, mainstream films, he was doing so in a fair and balanced way. Sure, _he_ thought “Transformers” was garbage, but _someone_ liked it, and he was going to treat it with the respect it deserved. That had been a tough one, sure, but that fact remained that…

His mental rambling stopped dead in its tracks when he realized Raven had been silent for far too long.

“Raven? Are you on tumblr?”

“What? No. Yes.” She snapped to attention. “What were you saying?”

“Nothing. I was lost in the roaring sea of my own helpless thoughts,” he replied wistfully.

“Sounds fun. Hey, have you ever Google image searched E. Lehnsherr?”

“Why would I do that?” Charles had in fact done just that immediately after reading the tweet proclaiming that anyone paying to see “Jurassic Park” in 3D was a lemming. 

All he got were DVD covers and movie stills. Unless E. Lehnsherr looked a lot like Sam Rockwell in “7 Psychopaths,” yet another film “E” had torn apart needlessly.

“What’s his first name?” Raven’s fingers were poised over her keyboard.

“I’m not sure actually. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it. In my head it’s always Edward.”

“Ed Lehnsherr,” Raven mumbled, keys clacking in the distance. “Eddie?”

“Maybe Eduardo.”

“How exotic,” Raven mused, her tongue poking mischievously past her lips. “Elliott?”

“Like from ‘E.T.’?”

“Ernie?”

“You know, Ezra’s a nice name,” Charles added.

“Ethan? Maybe Evan. Hold on, how old is he?”

“I’m not sure but—wait, what are we doing?”

“Trying to figure out his first name obviously,” Raven replied with a haughty flip of her ponytail. 

“Why exactly?”

“So I can Google him. God, Charles. Are you new?”

“Why are we Googling him?” Charles knew, he was just playing coy. It was the exact reason he’d Googled him months ago. He was desperate to know what this vile, opinionated, clearly hate-filled, man looked like.

Like a troll, most likely. Charles had come to this conclusion long ago. 

“Because I want to see what this dude looks like. I bet he’s overweight and bitter and hates women.”

Charles’s mouth flew open in silent shock. “Raven! Why would you say that? That’s awful.”

She shrugged, as innocent as ever. “I dunno. Regurgitating gross stereotypes?”

“You’re terrible,” Charles replied, without a hint of conviction. “Anyway, I always pictured him about my age, or early 30s. Lanky. Awkward. Perhaps tormented in his youth. Clearly possessing an unlimited supply of anger and colorful phrases designed to melt the flesh off all who cross him. What does it matter though?”

“I guess we’ll never know because Edward Lehnsherr doesn’t exist.” She paused for a moment, closing multiple browser tabs. “Oh my god. Maybe it’s Elizabeth!”

Charles was startled by Raven’s sudden exclamation. He was also startled that he'd never even considered this possibility. How sexist of him. 

Perhaps E. Lehnsherr was a woman.


	4. Chapter 4

“Not for nothing, man, but I liked that movie. Oh, and the rent’s due.”

Sean was in the kitchen peering across the open space at Erik. He slurped down the remainder of his protein drink and unceremoniously dumped the glass in the overflowing sink.

Erik’s head was hung over his laptop. A few stray strands of dark hair had broken loose and fallen across his forehead. He gnawed on the inside of his mouth, his fingers drumming rhythmically against the side of the couch. He wasn’t paying any attention to the gangly redhead hovering about.

“The rent?” he asked, meekly.

Erik turned his head briefly, as if realizing Sean was there for the first time. He quickly swiveled back to the screen in front of him. “Yea yea. I’ll have it in a few days. I’m just waiting to get paid.”

Sean’s expression was creased with worry, and he continued to hover. More to get him to leave then to quell the other man’s fear, Erik added, “I wrote that piece for the movie ticket site. That paid well.” He looked up again. “I’ll have it, Sean.”

“I know, man. Whatchu working on now?”

Erik returned to typing. “Just replying to comments. These people… sometimes I just don’t understand. It’s like I’m speaking to them in a different language.”

“Still fighting about ‘Man with the Iron Fists’?” 

“I’m not fighting. Fighting would indicate I was in some sort of battle. I’m simply pointing out how incorrect a select few are. Like this ‘doctorXcinema’? What the fuck is that, anyway? Stupid name…”

“Is that the same dude from before?”

“The one who's defending Russell Crowe’s performance in that abomination? Yes.”

“Like I said, I dug it, Erik.”

“You would,” Erik replied with clear disdain. “You know,” his voice shifted into the monotone reserved for when he was repeating what he deemed obvious information, “that film tried to be an homage, and it ended up being a mockery. People should just seek out the movies it was ripping off. This doctor of X cinema should use his time more wisely.”

Sean shrugged it off. “Who is he?”

“Who?” Erik asked, soundly genuinely perplexed.

“Who is this guy? I mean, you’ve been commenting back and forth for days. You haven’t bothered to click on his profile?”

Erik was confused. Why would he click on some anonymous profile? What did it matter? He was just one of the many people that engaged Erik in some form of internet warfare. “I don’t care,” he answered simply.

“Click it, dude.” Sean was now directly over his shoulder. “He’s commenting through his Twitter. Click on it, it’ll go right there.”

“But why?”

Sean looked at Erik like he was an alien fumbling to understand the strange life forms that surrounded him. “Are you serious? You’ve spent so much time flaming this dude and you aren’t the least bit curious who he is?”

“Why would I be?” Erik’s attention was now completely on Sean.

“Erik,” Sean’s voice was painfully earnest, “don’t take this the wrong way,” he paused, considering his words carefully, “but are you a sociopath?”

Erik’s laughter rumbled low in his chest. “He’s just some guy who wants to argue on the internet,” he sighed. 

“I don’t want to blow your mind, man, but _you’re_ the guy who wants to argue on the internet.”

“That’s not true,” Erik shook his head gravely. “I post my opinions and people respond in turn. And then—”

“And then you tear them to shreds,” Sean finished for him.

“That’s not it at all. Sometimes my opinions aren’t popular, and I have to defend them.”

“Dude, internet rule numero uno: don’t read the comments.”

Erik scoffed, “I have to read the comments on my own posts.”

“Don’t read the comments,” Sean whispered dramatically, turning to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“To sling tacos. Some of us have to work.” Sean grabbed his water bottle off the kitchen counter and slipped on his sneakers.

“I am working,” Erik muttered with only the smallest hint of bitterness.

“Uh huh.” Sean was almost out the door before he called back, “And check out this X guy. He might be Russell Crowe in disguise!”

Erik snorted. He wished it was Crowe. He never did get a response he tweeted the review in question. OK, maybe tweeting at Russell Crowe had been a little aggressive. But he’d only done it out of a desire to share his thoughts. 

Erik was an opinionated guy, sure, but he wasn’t _looking_ for a fight. He wasn’t a bully. Although, lately he’d been wondering when the whole of the internet became his enemy… A combination of defiance and his slightly existential train of thought caused Erik to click on the screen name of the person who’d taken up so much of his attention these last few days. 

It led right to his Twitter. Well, Sean was right about _that_. 

“Charles Xavier,” he mumbled as he eyes swept down the timeline. That made the “x” in his handle a bit less obnoxious. At least it wasn’t short for “x-treme,” or something equally goofy.

Oh, and he’s a film writer, Erik thought, eyes nearly rolling out of his head. “Surprise, surprise,” he whispered to no one. 

The next sound in the apartment was that of Erik’s whooping laughter. He clapped his hands together once, making a loud _smack_ that reverberated through the space. 

“Snark Tank!” he exclaimed. Erik looked around the living room, joyful disbelief flitting across his face. “He writes for Snark Tank…” He trailed off. 

The smile tugging at Erik’s lips slipped slightly. He looked around again, taking in the cramped room, blinds tightly drawn against the bright Texas sun. He needed to share this with someone.

He opened a new tab and brought up Facebook. He hastily tapped out a quick message to Emma.

 **Erik Lehnsherr**  
Iron Fists writes for Snark Tank.

 **Emma Frost**  
I’m sorry, who is this?

 **Erik Lehnsherr**  
Cut the shit Emma.

 **Emma Frost**  
Yes, Erik. What is the emergency?

 **Erik Lehnsherr**  
The guy who loves Russell Crowe? Hes the film reviewer for Snark Tank  
here  
www.snarktank.com/cxavier

 **Emma Frost**  
That’s lovely, dear. 

**Erik Lehnsherr**  
click it frost

 **Emma Frost**  
What am I looking at exactly?  
He writes movie reviews.  
Like you.

 **Erik Lehnsherr**  
NOT LIKE ME  
did you click it  
emma?

 **Emma Frost**  
Yes.  
What’s the problem?

 **Erik Lehsnherr**  
he only reviews major releases

 **Emma Frost**  
He writes for a mainstream pop culture blog, dear heart.  
That’s probably why.

 **Erik Lehnsherr**  
so where does he get off posting on my piece

 **Emma Frost**  
I don’t understand your logic.  
You seem agitated.  
Your punctuation is nonexistent.

 **Erik Lehnsherr**  
he is exactly whats wrong with the state of film  
thats why garbage makes billions and quality film never sees the inside of a theater

 **Emma Frost**  
Because of this man?  
Because of little Charlie Xavier?

 **Erik Lehsnherr**  
his type yes

 **Emma Frost**  
Did you actually read any of these?  
He’s quite good.

 **Erik Lehnsherr**  
od course not  
why  
what?!

 **Emma Frost**  
You’re rage typing, dear.  
Calm down.  
Read the Jack Reacher one.  
He’s got some interesting theories on the film’s misogyny.  
Didn’t you feel the same?

 **Erik Lehnsherr**  
never mind emma 

**Emma Frost**  
Let’s have dinner this week.  
We can laugh at the man’s choice of employer then.

 **Erik Lehnsherr**  
fine


	5. Chapter 5

“So, be prepared to thank me.”

“Why, what’d you do?” His words were muffled and spoken into the floor. Charles was digging around under his desk for his ear buds. His head bobbed in and out of the camera’s view. “Oh, are you finally returning my Hitchcock Blu-ray set… because I… haven’t… bloody hell!” He popped back up, face flushed and hair flopping into his eyes, victoriously swinging wires at the lens. “Got ‘em.”

The mischievous glint in his sharp blue eyes took a serious turn as he straightened out his rucked up t shirt. “Raven, you really need to return that set though. It’s been almost five months since I’ve watched ‘Shadow of a Doubt.’ It’s inhumane.”

Raven’s expression remained unchanged. Her eyebrows were raised expectantly and her glossy lips were pinched together with obvious impatience. “You done?”

“Yes, I believe I am. So other than returning my rightful property, what am I thanking you for?”

“I found your 'E'.”

For a moment Charles thought Raven was talking about drugs and was preparing to deny ownership when it hit him. “You found Lehnsherr!”

“Uh huh.” She was clearly pleased, struggling to contain her glee.

“And you’re certain it’s the correct ‘E’?”

“Lives in Austin, right?”

Charles widened his eyes in exasperation and nodded emphatically. “Yes, and won’t shut up about it. Wears it like a badge for christ’s sake. ‘Oh look at me, I’m at this festival. I’m at this screening. I’m at this theater.’ Ugh.”

“Wow, jealous much?” 

“No. It's simply annoying,” his voice was colored with specks of petulance and insolence. He was most definitely jealous. 

“OK." Raven’s eyes were glittering and she was making little flourishes with her hands. “Shall we have a drum roll?”

“Get on with it,” Charles huffed with sudden impatience.

Raven’s mouth slid into a mock pout. “Not with that attitude. That’s not how you treat your favorite sister that happens to have info you want.”

“Oh fine! Please, Miss Raven, will you share with me the precious tidbits of information you’ve managed to dredge up from the murky depths of the interwebs.”

“That’s bett—”

“'E'’s a woman, isn’t he? I mean, she. I knew it! I went back and reread a bunch of old reviews and, yes, I was blind, I can definitely see it now. Some of the themes and,” Charles was rambling and stumbling over his surging thoughts, “there’s so many references to Laura Mulvey. She obviously felt she would be taken more seriously if she presented herself in a gender neutral manner. And, you know, I could really see she and I hitting if off quite well if she could just drop the attitu—”

“Oh. Wow. Charles, please shut up. His name’s Erik. With a ‘k'. He’s a dude.” Raven slumped forward. “You really sucked all the fun out of that.”

Charles slipped from enthused school boy to stoic headmaster instantly. “Huh. Erik…”

“Are you disappointed?”

“No.” Charles pondered the situation briefly before continuing. “I’ve no reason to be. I just built this whole new person, and now… Well, I rather liked this ‘Elizabeth Lehnsherr.’” He offered the webcam a crooked half-smile.

“Aw! You made up a fake friend and now you’re sad she isn’t real!” Raven cooed at him as though he were a fluffy puppy. “Maybe you and Erik can be friends.” She wiggled her brows suggestively.

Charles twisted his face into something both mildly disgusted and incredulous. “How’d you find him, anyway?”

“I am a woman of many talents, dear brother.” Raven put on her most sultry voice and smoldered at him.

“Yes, that’s wonderful. How?”

“Ugh. You are no fun. You are the opposite of fun, Charles!” She threw up her hands dramatically. “I just when back through all the accounts that @ tweeted him. In one from a few weeks ago someone called him Erik. Guess it’s not that big a secret.”

“ I see…” Charles chewed his lower lip, deep in thought, bidding his final farewells to that firecracker Elizabeth.

“Well don’t you want to see him?”

“Ooh! You’ve got pictures?” Charles was immediately lured back into the conversation with freshly raised spirits.

Raven clapped her hands together lightly, an eager child waiting to tear open a perfectly wrapped gift. “It’s his Facebook.”

Charles beamed. He’d always been a bit of a creeper.

“But it’s private.”

His face fell, eyes loosing their wicked gleam.

“But his profile pic? Yea. You might want to reconsider the whole being pals thing.” She fanned herself, exhaling theatrically. 

“Oh,” Charles attempted to remain coy, impassive. “Is he attractive?”

“Attractive? Uh, is the sun hot? Is the sky blue? Do fish swim, Charles?”

“Just send me the link already.”

With a melodious _ping_ the URL to Charles’s nemesis, the man who embodied the pretension and hit-grabbing that Charles so loathed, was sitting in his chat window. He bowed his head slightly, feeling inexplicably like something important, something with a distinct weight, was unfolding right before him. With a quick tap of his mouse, the window popped open and spread across his screen.

“Are you kidding me?” Charles howled, as if he’d been stabbed in the gut.

“Yup. I mean, it’s small, but you can make out all the important details.”

“This can’t be a real photo,” Charles muttered, brain turning to pudding.

There E. Lehnsherr stood, leaning casually against the side of a black car. Slender legs covered by dark blue denim. A form fitting, long sleeved beige shirt clinging to his torso obscenely. His auburn hair tousled, but not completely unruly. And a beard.

“Raven,” Charles almost gasped. “He’s got a ginger beard.”

Charles’s internet nemesis was a self-righteous, self-important git. 

Charles’s internet nemesis was also gorgeous.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so grateful for all the comments thus far!  
> Thanks!

“So I followed him.”

“Where?”

Erik licked the hot sauce off his fingers, head angled to the side, casting a disbelieving look at Emma. “On Twitter,” he replied, unamused.

“Ah, yes. The site with all the hashtags. How lovely for you both.” Emma raised a single, perfectly arched brow at Erik. “For the record, when I had suggested dinner, I didn’t necessarily mean this.” She motioned around the gloomy living room. 

“I have some stuff I have to finish up,” he paused to take another bite of his burrito. Mouth still full he added, “and it was free.”

“Yes. Free for me. And also free for you. You’re liable to get poor Sean fired for stealing.”

“It’s not stealing if I made them myself!” Sean shouted from the small balcony. 

“And they’re delicious, dear, thank you,” she purred. “So you followed the evil Mr. Xavier. Now what?”

“Now I silently mock him and passive aggressively allude to him in my own tweets.”

“You aren’t serious.”

Erik flashed a ferocious grin. “Not entirely. It is sort of ridiculous how often he links to his reviews though. Also, I think he sees _every_ film that gets a wide theatrical release. Even kid’s movies.”

“Someone’s got to do it,” Emma replied, daintily plucking a tomato from her burrito. 

Erik scoffed dismissively. “No self-respecting critic would write for a site like Snark Tank. I mean, they’re owned by Shaw Global Media.” 

“Oh, good for Charles. At least _he’s_ well paid,” Emma mused dryly. 

“Very nice, Emma,” Erik grunted through lips thinned by frustration.

“Erik, you can’t seriously fault the man for making a living.” She adjusted her skirt and crossed her legs, placing her now empty plate delicately on the coffee table.

“Can’t I?”

Emma raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I suppose you can. But, keep in mind, I think that says more about you than it does him.”

“What? That I’d rather suffer financially and champion indie releases and experimental film? That I’d rather people give their money to Lars von Trier than Michael Bay? That I believe quality cinema deserves dedicated, informed voices—”

“Yes. I’ve heard it before, Erik. But must that voice be so loud?”

“Absolutely.”

Emma sighed softly. “You know I find your wild enthusiasm endearing. But you can be simply exhausting at times.”

Erik smiled sweetly, chewing that last of his dinner.

“And on that positively upbeat note, I must be going. Thank you for the stolen meal. And thank you for speaking of nothing but your new internet obsession while I attempted to balance a plate on my knee. You are a marvelous host.”

Erik ignored the majority of her farewell, focusing on the jab tucked neatly into the middle of the statement. “Obsession? Hardly.”

“I beg to differ, my dear,” Emma offered genially, without a hint of guile.

“Me too!” Sean called from the balcony.

Emma simply nodded in the boy’s direction, as though that were proof enough.

“Am not.” 

“Such a bulletproof argument… You win,” she replied simply. Emma fluffed her hair, using long, perfectly manicured fingers to disengage any tangles. “Talk soon. And try not to spend too much time on the lad’s Facebook.”

Emma sauntered off, offering Sean a regal wave as they passed each other in the hall.

“You think he even has a Facebook?” Erik asked before Sean had even made it into the room.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Erik treated the question as rhetorical, and sat quietly staring at his laptop screen. 

“Did you not see one when you Googled him? It’s not a super common name.”

“I didn’t Google him.”

Sean gaped, mouth wide like a guppy. “Has no one taught you how to use the internet yet?”

“Was I supposed to Google him?”

“I mean, yea, right?” Sean looked dumbstruck, as if he were explaining to Erik the importance of breathing. “That’s what you do when you want to ‘get to know someone’ online.” Sean liberally employed air quotes as he spoke. 

“I don’t want to get to know him,” Erik snapped.

“Then why’d you follow him? I know you’re very strict about your ratio of followers to following.”

Erik couldn’t even argue that point. It was completely true. He was really very deliberate in who he gave his time to. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. 

“Well you at least read his stuff, right? Emma told me it was good.”

Attempting to keep his annoyance in check, Erik replied in a deliberately measured tone. “I skimmed them.” 

He hadn’t. He had skimmed the pages and pages of content, eyes darting past action movie after big budget flop after rom-com. Upon discovering the _second_ review of the Katy Perry documentary, he promptly navigated away, fighting back the urge to tweet disparaging comments at the man. As of now, he still hadn’t engaged him in any way, and their back and forth on “Iron Fists” had finally wound down.

Erik had to admit, it was one of the more civil, and not completely unpleasant, verbal tug of wars he’d participated in. The man could argue a point. And he seemed to have a grasp on basic grammar. Which was more than Erik could say for a slew of other “critics” running around the web.

Sean had flopped down in their beat-up recliner and was flipping through the channels. 

“Maybe I’ll do a quick search,” Erik murmured absently. He was just pecking at the "x" key when he noticed the little envelope signaling the arrival of an email. Glancing at its subject, he saw someone had left a comment on his “Oz the Great and Powerful” review. “These Sam Raimi apologists!” he shouted, making Sean jump. Clacking angrily, he muttered and sunk down further into the couch. “And I’m going to need the TV after this. I have two Blu-rays to review.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Wait, slow down. What’s the big deal?”

“He follows like, 20 people, Raven.”

“And?”

“And now I’m one of them.”

“So? I’m not really seeing the crisis here, bro.

“It’s nerve-wracking! I feel like he’s judging me! I’ve barely tweeted a thing since it happened. I live in fear.”

Raven tried to bite back her squeak of laughter. “What are you afraid of?”

“Well, I mean…” Charles hesitated, gaze slipping from his cam to the floor. “Is ‘I don’t know’ an appropriate response?” 

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“I suppose I dread a confrontation.” The sentence morphed into a question at the end, words turning up to perfectly illustrate Charles’s lack of confidence.

“But didn’t you already fight with him via comment?”

“Yes, but this is altogether different. Twitter is _personal_.”

Raven sent a semi-eye roll hurtling towards him. “You’re right, twitter is uber personal. All those long, in depth responses. You can really get to know someone. Are you afraid of him because he’s crazy hot?”

The question took Charles a bit off guard and his sharp intake of breathe caused him to inhale spit. As he indulged in a brief coughing fit, his phone chimed from the desk beside him.

He glanced at its illuminated screen. MOIRA MACTAGGERT flashed before him. Charles lifted a finger to the camera, silently requesting Raven give him a moment. She waved him away and immediately busied herself.

After one final _hack_ , he answered.

“Hello, my dear. To what do I owe this—” Charles paused, a crease forming between his knitted brows. 

“Uh huh.” He nodded, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Yes. Well, certainly I would.” Charles’s expression turned from simple trepidation to nearly incredulous while Moira continued to speak. “No. Yes of course. But, Moira, why me?” 

Charles continued his assenting head bows, listening intently. To the uninitiated, his face was a blank mask, completely unreadable and utterly calm. But as she observed the one-sided conversation with renewed interest, Raven could see the tick in her brother’s jaw.

“I suppose it would be foolish of me not to accept. Right. Then email me the details.” Charles slowly began to move the phone away from his head. From a distance he added, “And thank you, Moira.”

Before the call had been ended Raven pounced. “What the hell was that? Is someone dead?”

Charles favored her with a displeased frown as he gathered his thoughts. “Moira wants me to go to North By Northeast with her.”

“Whaaa? Why?” That was not the news Raven had been expecting. “Isn’t that a huge music festival? Oh! Is anyone good playing?”

After a reprise of the frown he’d worn moments earlier, Charles sent her a link. 

As she clicked around, reading for herself, he elaborated. “It’s one of the premier film festivals in the country. I mean, it’s not Sundance, or Cannes, or TIFF…”

“Really selling it, Charles.”

“I mean, it’s big. It’s huge actually.” He was still feeling a bit off kilter, attempting to wrap his head around it all.

“And you’re going to cover it for the Tank?”

Although he was still lost in his own world, Charles replied immediately, head snapping up to stare directly at Raven. “No, not for them. There’s not enough mainstream releases screening. Moira wants me to go with her as official press for the 'Village Voice.'”

Raven’s voice hit octaves Charles wasn’t aware humans could reach. “WHAT? That’s amazing,” she squealed, the speakers crackling. 

“Um yes,” Charles gulped audibly. “It’s rather, um, huge actually.”

“My big brother writing for the 'Village Voice,'” she said proudly, chest puffed, cheeks rosy.

“Yes,” Charles attempted to affect an air of confidence. “I am going to be writing film reviews for the illustrious 'Village Voice.'” He shifted in his chair, sitting straighter, chin tilted up. “This is reason to celebrate.”

“Yes! Let’s get drunk on the internet together!”

Charles smiled brightly, his eyes moistening with the almost overwhelming flood of emotions. Pride, elation, fear, astonishment, nervousness, all washed over him with shocking speed. 

Allowing him a moment to bask in the strange and wonderful turn of events, Raven continued to scroll through the North By Northeast website. Maybe he could really do it, Charles thought. Maybe he could really ascend to greater visibility by writing balanced, informed, _fair_ reviews. Maybe this was it. He was entering a new level, and this would afford him so much credibility. Much more than—”

A childlike guffaw roused him from his intense inner monologue. 

“Neeeeeeeeeeeeeat!” Raven crowed, stretching her "e" far too long. “This thing's in Austin.” 

“Oh, no.” Charles had forgotten. Of course it was in Austin.

“Oh yes!” Raven’s final words echoed, as if they were spoken from underwater: “Maybe you’ll get to meet your honey!”

“But I don’t wanna,” was all he could muster.


	8. Chapter 8

“So who else is coming?”

“From Twinge? Aren’t I enough?” Darwin offered up a playful smile.

“You’re the only one I can put up with for seven days,” Erik grinned. “I just want to know if I’m going to have to play nice.”

“So you’re really asking if Janos is coming. I don’t know. But Angel definitely is.” 

For the most part, Erik was pleased by this information. He loathed the sight of Janos and he had a genuine affinity for talking foreign film with Angel. As he and Darwin entered the small bar next to the festival’s main theater, he realized that meant the site would most likely be using her coverage for all the foreign entries. That meant he'd have to switch up his schedule last minute to avoid double coverage.

“And Summers will be here for sure.”

“Which one?” Erik scowled. 

“Alex. Don’t worry, man. I think the less-awesome of the pair is still in New York filming some documentary.”

“Good.” As Erik surveyed the bar, he realized the only thing recognizable about the patrons were their press badges; he didn't know anyone. “Less people to talk to.”

“And you should know who’s gunna be here. Don’t you follow everyone on Twitter?”

“Yea, but I don’t look at their tweets. It’s all stuff about cats and breakfast and people talking in movie theaters. Who’s looking for that?” 

“Obviously everyone but you. And hey,” Darwin added with a wicked glint in his dark eyes, “just because you don’t know any of them, doesn’t mean they don’t know you.”

Darwin’s words sent a twitch of panic spiraling through Erik’s body. He had the sudden urge to tuck the badge hanging around his neck, complete with his full name for all the world to see, into his navy button up. 

Erik loved film. He loved the fact that he could watch five or six movies a day during these fests. He loved that he was getting paid to do it. And as much as he loved the tens of thousands of followers he had, how they clamored to “talk” to him, he did not love socializing with strangers. 

He was aware how foolish it was.

The two men slid onto the pair of vacant stools at the bar. Darwin was chatting pleasantly about his flight in from Chicago. As they sipped their beers, they gossiped about a few of their fellow writers, and Erik attempted to update the next day's viewing from his phone. 

After about an hour, Erik observed, “Still no Angel.”

“Nope.”

Erik enjoyed Darwin’s company, and the two got along rather well considering they only saw each other three or four times a year. “And no Alex.” But the conversation was wearing a bit thin.

“Well, I thought I saw him,” Darwin said, craning his head around the bar. “Or maybe it was some other ridiculously good looking blond.”

They both let out short bursts of laughter. Alex was not the “typical” movie geek. His light hair and eyes, coupled with his chiseled features and athletic build made him stick out like a sore thumb. 

Darwin swung around completely, sitting backwards on his stool. “Oh, Moira’s here,” he said to the vacant space in front of him.

“What?” Erik asked, turning slightly.

“MacTaggert. I didn’t think she’d descend from her mountain for this.”

“Too busy twitpicing from Park City. No one wants to see six selfies of her and Joseph Gordon-Levitt. No one cares, Moira,” Erik said into his empty bottle.

“We should go say hi though,” Darwin said, back still to the bar.

“You can go say hi. I’m fine here.”

“I wonder who that is with her.” Darwin’s voice was carrying in the complete opposite direction, and Erik finally turned around in order to properly hear him.

“What?” Erik asked just as his gaze fell on the small table that housed Moira and her companion. “Who that fuck is that?”

“That’s what I just said. Never seen him before. Maybe he’s with the 'Voice.'” Darwin hopped gingerly off his stool. “Come with me and find out.”

“Nah. I’m fine here,” Erik attempted to keep an even tone. “I’ll keep our spots.” 

Erik watched Darwin traverse the bar. Once he saw Moira’s face light up with pleased recognition, he spun back around. He did not, under any circumstances, want to talk to the man seated with Moira MacTaggert. More accurately, he didn’t think he _could_ talk to the man seated with Moira MacTaggert.

Sure, Alex wasn’t the “typical” guy walking around North By Northeast, but this guy was the opposite of anyone Erik had ever observed at one of these things. Critics weren't usually known for their perfectly parted, luminous chestnut hair. Or piercing blue eyes whose light carried across a crowded bar. They weren't famous for their smooth pale skin and matinee idol looks. And they certainly didn’t wear gray cardigans complete with leather elbow patches in Texas. In September. 

Unless he was an actor, Erik thought. He supposed it was possible… But no, he was press. Before he’d whipped around to stare solemnly at the bar top, he’d seen a badge around the man's neck. And it was blue. The fact that Erik noticed this because it brought out the blue of his eyes was only slightly mortifying.


	9. Chapter 9

“Nice to meet you, Armando. How do you know Moira?”

“Mostly from these things.”

Moira jumped in, “Remember that awful little site we used to write for? Remember that time they cut off the intro to my piece about… what was it about…”

“’Cloverfield,’” they answered in unison, then erupted into raucous laughter.

Charles was out of his depth. Moira knew everyone. _Literally_. People had been coming up to them since they’d first sat down. He’d been introduced to so many people the names and faces began blurring together. It was good, he told himself, you’re networking.

But now, as he nursed his very watery scotch and soda, he felt his insecurities bubbling to the surface. When he sensed a break in the pair’s waltz down memory lane, Charles interjected. “If you’d excuse me for a moment, I need to make a call. It was a pleasure to meet you, Armando.”

“You can call me Darwin. Most people do.”

“All right, Darwin.” The moment the name had passed his lips, his brain made the connection. And before he could put any further thought behind it, he blurted out, “You write for Twinge Film, don’t you?”

“Oh! A fan!” Darwin exclaimed gleefully. 

Charles was struggling to keep the conversation in safe and ambiguous territory. “I am familiar with that website,” he replied in his best impression of a ‘50s style robot.

“Cool,” Darwin nodded, obviously perplexed by the turn in the conversation. He shifted his attention to Moira, “Yea, Erik’s here too.”

It was like lightening had struck Charles Xavier. He could feel tremors taking hold of his appendages. His vision shrunk to a pinpoint, and his hearing deadened as though buried underground. He struggled not to throw up all over the table.

“Lehnsherr!” Moira hollered gleefully. “Where is he? Off being grumpy?”

“Yea,” Darwin pointed to the bar and Charles nearly got whiplash.

“Well,” Charles choked out, “I’m off to use the phone!” He placed an unnecessary amount of pressure on the table, nearly knocking it over as he stood. His odd tone and sudden flush elicited queer glances from the duo. 

He was sure they stared as he ran to the bathroom. 

Once safely inside a stall he fumbled for his phone. Raven would still be awake, he thought frantically. She had to be awake. And after a three rings, she picked up.

“Aren’t you supposed to be watching a billion movies or something?”

“Raven,” he hissed, desperately trying to keep his voice low. 

“Did you call me to say goodnight?” she asked playfully oblivious.

“He’s here!”

“Of course he is! Did you guys make out yet?” She was obviously enjoying herself.

Charles sunk down the partition separating the two stalls. He almost sat on the floor in a heap of dismay before he thought better of it. He really liked these slacks. 

“What am I supposed to do?” Charles was near hysterical.

After a brief pause, “Talk to him?”

“You are being supremely un-helpful, Raven.”

“What do you want me to say? Just keep hiding—are you in the bathroom—just keep hiding in the bathroom. Couldn’t you have gone outside?”

“I didn’t think of it,” Charles said miserably.

“OK, then avoid him.”

“Won’t that be rude?”

“How is avoiding someone you’ve never met rude? Unless you _want_ to talk to him.”

Charles hesitated. “I don’t _not_ want to talk to him.”

“Then talk to him!”

“It’s not really that easy.”

Raven scoffed and the sound came through as a loud crackling. “Here’s the wacky thing, it actually is. I bet he’s super nice in real life. And, Charles? He most likely won’t know who you are.”

For some inexplicable reason Raven’s words made Charles wilt, made him feel worse than he already did. But they were true. 

Erik had a presence, albeit mostly negative, online. Charles was invisible. He was a guy who wrote reviews that no one read on a site that kept him around in an attempt to maintain some shred of credibility. That was his job. He should have business cards printed up. 

“I think I’ll avoid,” Charles groaned.

“Suit yourself. But Charles,” Raven’s voice pitched lower, became serious, “try not to forget how hot he is.”

Charles chuckled despite himself. He stood upright and straightened his sweater. This was not why he was here. He was here to network and advance his career and, he was beginning to think, keep Moira company.

“Oh!” Raven gasped suddenly. “But you saw him? I mean, I know you don’t want to talk about it…”

“I saw his back.”

“Was it sexy?”

Charles snorted. “Yes, Raven. It was very sexy.” Raven laughed, but he wasn’t kidding. After Darwin pointed, Charles knew instantly which hunched body was Erik’s. He’d had a lot of time on the flight to Texas to stare at the grainy photo. He stopped when his eyes began to blur from the heavy pixilation. In an instant he’d been able to take in the sight of the man’s broad shoulders, dark shirt stretched taut. Erik’s head was angled down, but Charles could see his hair was longer now. 

Charles barely heard Raven’s pleasant farewell as he exited the bathroom. He slid the phone into his pocket, maneuvering through the ever-growing crowd. He was glad the crush of people obscured any possible view he may have had of Erik’s enticing back.

As he nudged through the clusters of people in search of his table, all he could think about was tugging that auburn hair while Erik gently scolded him for giving “Rise of the Guardians” a favorable review. Charles licked his lips at the thought. Well, at least he’d have pleasant dreams tonight.

His smile lasted until he finally emerged from the sea of semi-drunk patrons. His gaze found Moira’s warm honey eyes, and then immediately darted over to the man seated next to her.

There he sat, in all his long, lean, narrow waisted and off-puttingly awkward grinned glory: Erik Lehnsherr.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the comments and for sticking with this. I promise, I'm not being a tease!   
> (They'll get some face time VERY soon.)

“Oh, there you are! Erik, this is—”

“Charles!” 

The man, Charles, shoved his hand in Erik’s face. He looked disheveled, eyes glassy, cheeks tomato-red. He was also fidgeting like mad. Erik was begrudgingly charmed as he shook the clammy appendage.

“Yes,” Moira interjected, “this is my friend and colleague Charles Xa—”

“Pleased to meet you!” Charles shouted, trampling over Moira’s second attempt at an introduction.

“Charles, are you drunk?” Moira asked, more perplexed than annoyed.

“No no no. I’m fine. Just a bit tired from the flight I suppose.” He chuckled nervously, shoving his hands in the pockets of his pleasantly fitted slacks.

“Colleague?” Erik asked with sincere curiosity. He was desperate to figure out who this awkwardly handsome little man was. Certainly if he was a colleague of Moira’s they would have met before. 

Erik casually glanced at the badge strung round Charles’s neck. It was conspicuously turned around so that all Erik could see was the fine print.

“Yes, he writes for—”

“’The Village Voice!’” Charles smashed the words together in his rush to beat Moira.

“Yea, he’s here helping me out,” Moira added. “Although I’m starting to wonder how wise that was. When did you get so spazzy, Charles?”

The manic brunet still stood at the end of the table, on display for the group. Erik didn’t mind the view, but he felt a pang of shared mortification as Charles let out a forced, too-loud guffaw.

When Darwin had come to fetch him at Moira’s behest, he was certain he’d be the awkward one sweating through his shirt having to sit next to the stranger. 

“Moira! I am going… to go… back to the hotel!” Charles’s words came out at a stutter and were much too shrill. He nodded at Darwin and then he sort of bowed in Erik’s direction. He turned on his heel and walked away without another word.

“Nice to meet you!” Darwin shouted after him.

Moira looked only slightly mortified. She pinched the bridge of her nose, hair hanging in her face. She exhaled loudly letting it morph into a moan.

“He’s fun,” Darwin offered in an attempt to break the increasingly uncomfortable silence. “Is he always like that?”

“Not at all, actually.” She sighed again. “Guys, I have to go.” Moira grabbed her purse, looking only slightly put-out, which surprised Erik. She was usually much more flappable. “I’m his ride.”

“OK, well, we’ll see you.” Darwin smiled brightly, looking up as Moira stood.

“Yea, um what do your schedules look like for tomorrow?”

“I’m doing interviews all day,” Darwin looked over at Erik, “and I’m not sure what his deal is.”

“My itinerary will be posted online later tonight,” Erik replied, relatively unaware of how brusque his tone was.

“I’m not going to look at that,” Moira said, shaking her head, light judgment passing across her face. “Anyway, Charles and I will be doing the old divide and conquer, so maybe say hi if you see him wandering. He’s out of his element.”

Moira gave a little wave and darted toward the exit. Erik had wanted to ask more questions. How did she know the strange little man? What _was_ his usual element? What were his feelings on Kubrick’s later works? The important stuff.

Darwin took long drink from his beer. “That cat was peculiar.” He shook his head, an amused grin pulling at his lips. “Knew who I was though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Told him my Twinge name, and he knew me right away.” He took another sip, quietly basking in his moment of celebrity.

Erik attempted to keep the question at bay, but it was almost out of his control. “And he didn’t know who I was?”

Darwin coughed a bit on his next swig of beer, wiping the stray drops from his lips. “Well,” he smiled widely, “he sort of barreled through your introduction.” 

“That’s true,” Erik replied, mostly appeased. He wasn’t quite sure why he wanted this odd, twitchy Charles person to recognize him when earlier in the night the thought of any acknowledgement had filled him with intense dread.

“You can let him know exactly who you are tomorrow when you baby sit.”

“What do you mean?” Erik had already checked out. His thoughts were now torn between reorganizing his festival schedule and pondering the nature of Charles’s film collection. His thoughts on digital. If he owned a VCR. What his mouth tasted like. 

“Moira,” Darwin offered in answer. Erik just glared, unhappy at being ripped from his important pontifications. “Asked you to hangout with her boy.” Erik didn’t flinch. “Where you not here for that part?”

“I thought she was asking you,” Erik finally replied. 

“Dude, I said I was in interviews all day. I’m pretty sure she was talking to you.”

“Well she should have said my name then.” Erik was becoming increasingly panicked. The unwelcome emotion was translating as pure, undiluted aggravation. 

“Think he’s going to cramp your style?” Darwin sounded a bit more sympathetic, even if it was laced with mockery. “I swear he wasn’t that weird when I first walked over. Was really excited about some of the more obscure stuff screening.”

Erik grunted. He was unable to wrap his head around the idea. Moira seriously expected him to interact willingly with her bizarre friend? Did she not know him? He barely had any interest socializing with people he _liked_ and just because the man’s compact frame and crooked smile sent his heart into his throat he wasn’t just going to throw all his usual habits out the window— 

It was at then, in an unusually clear moment of introspection, Erik realized that he wasn’t just annoyed by Moira’s presumptuousness. That was certainly a large part of it… The thought of hopping from movie to movie with Charles caused a bright spark of joy to ignite in his chest. It was warm and flowed over him like a summer breeze. And he hated it. That hatred was fueled by the foolishness tagging along behind. He didn’t know this person, and he was crafting fantasies that would surely end with bitter disappointment.

And he had been given a reason to talk to the man, quell his curiosity. 

Maybe they wouldn’t even cross paths. Maybe Charles would be at all the big premieres and events. Maybe they’d never see each other again.

Maybe that was all for the best.


	11. Chapter 11

“Holy shit, Charles. What is wrong with you?”

Charles sat teetering on the edge of the twin bed. His lip was planted firmly between his teeth and he was biting down so hard it was almost excruciating. 

“It was bad, huh?”

“Bad!” Moira was decibels away from shouting. “Bad?” She shook her head. “That was mortifying.”

Charles was hit with the simultaneous desire to cry for days, get blindingly drunk, hide in a closet, and die. He settled for curling into the fetal position on the scratchy hotel comforter.

“What was that? Are you OK?” Her voice mellowed slightly, letting in the faintest hint of real concern.

“I’m fine” Charles said into the fabric.

“Charles, you bowed at Erik Lehnsherr.” Even though he wasn’t looking, Charles knew the expression that would be painted on Moira’s face: incredulous embarrassed amusement. “Good thing it wasn’t anyone important,” she huffed out, sitting on the bed opposite his.

Charles groaned loudly, sorrow only somewhat muffled by the mattress. “He’ll think I’m an idiot.”

“Darwin and Erik don’t really matter.” She waved her petite hand as if swatting away a pest.

He answered with another groan, this one longer and more guttural. 

“We can just say you were nervous and took some anti-psychotic and had a terrible reaction.”

Charles sat up, wiping the drool from his chin. He glared at Moira. “That’s downright offensive.”

Moira scoffed. “OK, bizarro Charles. You ran out of there like your clothes were on fire.”

“I just… it was… E. Lehnsherr…” He said the name like it was an admission.

“Ha!” Moira’s whole face brightened. “You know him? Are you a fan? Oh, no. Are you afraid of Erik?”

Charles found his bottom lip again and started chomping. “Not really.”

“Yes you are!” she accused teasingly. “Oh, you’ll see tomorrow. He’s not that bad. A bit ornery. And opinionated. And gruff. And hot-tempered.” Moira frowned. “Maybe he is that bad. But you can handle him.”

Charles had stopped listening right around the point when Moira said “you’ll see tomorrow.”

In his horror and utter confusion, he could only muster the strength for repetition. “I’ll see tomorrow?”

“Yea, I asked him to say hi if he saw you sort of… hanging.” Charles must have looked as horrified as he felt because she quickly added, “What? I thought it might help to have a familiar face in the crowd. Just so you didn’t feel so— For God’s sake, what?”

“Perhaps I should have told you.” Charles ran both hands through his mussed up hair, attempting to regain some sort of composure. 

Moira quirked an eyebrow and canted her head slightly. It was rather dog-like of her.

Charles exhaled through his nose, gathering his strength. “I’m… I’ve… I’ve have online arguments with Erik Lehsnsherr.”

Moira’s face melted from quizzical concern to exalted joy. She smiled a smile that let loose all her teeth. She looked positively mad with glee. “That’s wonderful!” she crooned. She clasped her hands and beamed like a proud parent watching their toddler graduate pre-school. 

Charles’s head spun. This can’t be real life, he thought. Any minute Rod Serling would step into their moderately ratty hotel room and reveal that somewhere between LA and Austin, Charles Xavier had taken an unwanted detour, to the Twilight Zone. 

When a dour gent in a black and white suit didn’t show up, Charles bit, and asked, “How is that wonderful?”

“Erik loves to argue! You two will get on like a house on fire.”

“But Moira,” he whined, “I don’t like to argue!” When her expression showed nothing but dubious doubt, he added, “In person.”

She answered with a dismissive noise and began rifling through her bag.

“Seriously, Moria. I wish you hadn’t felt the need to assign me a baby sitter. At least not without talking to me first.”

“I don’t get what the big deal is, Charles,” she replied, hands flying up in exasperation. “You’ll get along great. And that’s if he even talks to you.”

“Yes, it’s quite obvious you don’t see the issue. I’m not even sure why you wanted me here.” His tone was much darker than he intended, and the look that crossed Moira’s face made his heart ice over.

Moira turned her back, and continued to busy herself with the contents of her suitcase. 

“Moira?” Charles’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Moira? I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“Yea it was,” she replied, but she sounded more wounded than angry, so Charles continued.

“This is all a bit stressful for me. But I’m so grateful for the invitation.” He rose from the bed and quickly closed the distance between them. He wrapped his arms around Moira’s waist and kissed the back of her head. “Sorry I snapped,” he said into her hair.

Moira gave his hand a quick squeeze and spun around, eyes gleaming and sporting a radiant smile. “All is forgiven!” She kissed his cheek and hurried past him to the bathroom.

Charles stood, slightly dumbfounded by her ability to bounce back so quickly. “Thanks?” he offered, still umoving.

“Besides,” Moira echoed from the tiny off-white lavatory, “if you hadn’t noticed, he’s easy on the eyes!”


	12. Chapter 12

“Hey.”

Erik had pretended not to see him three times already. This was only day one.

He had first spotted Charles and Moira at the taco truck a few blocks away from the convention center. Downtown had become an undulating sea of bodies, but somehow, with an ease absent from most of his actions, he had seen them. Just standing there. He _had_ seen Moira first, but where there’s one… Charles stood just to her left, slightly hunched over, unceremoniously destroying a breakfast taco.

Erik subsequently skipped that meal.

Next, he ran his fingers though his hair, momentarily obscuring his face, as Charles walked by. Erik was already planted out in front of the theater, awaiting screening number one. Charles ended up a handful of people behind him, but Erik never turned around for fear of catching the other man’s eye.

When Erik situated himself in the last row in hopes of Charles just walking past him to find a more desirable seat, it struck him how ridiculous he was being. Was he avoiding this person out of principal? That certainly wasn’t beyond him, but it wasn’t the reason. There was something about the silly little smile that he shot Moira as they devoured their food that made his chest burn. He should really just say hello.

And as Erik ambled back to that same theater for screening number two, he almost stepped on Charles. He was seated, legs crossed, on the ground, pouring over a small spiral notepad. Even though his foot nearly landed in the other’s lap, Erik kept walking, looking for the line. He rounded the corner of the building and realized that Charles _was_ the line. 

He had considered walking around the block. If he slid in right behind Charles, well, they’d almost have to talk. Even if Erik kept his lips zipped, Charles would surely recognize him. Surely…

Erik took a deep breath, steeling himself, and walked back toward Charles—the line. From behind he looked like a small boy, his long sleeves (why was he wearing long sleeves, it was close to 90 degrees) hanging far past his wrists. The sunlight danced across his chestnut locks, playing with the few gray strands that were nestled there. It was like the sun was putting him on display.

Erik groaned inwardly at the ridiculous poetry of his inner monologue, and before he could think better of it he said, “Hey.”

Charles looked up from his scrawling, but his eyes were trained in front of him. After spending a moment considering the pros of pretending he’d never opened his mouth, Erik cleared his throat. “Hi.” He said it louder this time. 

Charles turned his head and looked up, and, for a few fleeting seconds, he looked horrified. Like, someone is chasing me through this wooded area with an axe horrified. Like, I am being hung upside-down over a vat of roiling acid horrified, Erik thought. But as quickly as it came, it melted away, and was replaced with a warm, if slightly awkward, smile. 

“Hi,” Charles replied simply.

“I’m Erik, we met—”

“I know.”

“Oh…”

“I’m Charles.”

“I know.” Erik felt the man’s awkwardness rubbing off. It was like an infection spreading through his body, taking over his limbs, making his tongue thick and stupid. It didn’t help that he was looming over Charles like a Yeti. It was a painfully uncomfortable tableau and Erik wasn’t shocked to note that his heart was hammering away in his chest. 

Erik was hovering, and Charles was still staring up at him, squinting to fend off the early afternoon sun that peeked out from behind Erik’s head. It was a nightmare. Erik was living a nightmare born from social anxiety and the inability to act normally around attractive people. He stuttered out, “This looks good,” jabbing his thumb in the direction of the theater. Nightmarish…

But Charles brightened a bit, a new, less strained, smile playing at his lips. “Oh, yes! I’m really looking forward to it.” He paused, taking the temperature of the room, gauging his audience. “Have you seen the short film she did? The director I mean. It’s absolutely gorgeous. So lush. And the imagery! I don’t mean to gush, but it’s really remarkable!”

Erik swallowed hard, “Yea, I saw it. I liked it.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re really excited for this doc?”

“Oh my! Am I? It’s in my top 5 must sees of the fest.” He blushed. The crimson flush crept across his cheeks and down his neck. Charles coughed lightly into a closed fist, looking away from Erik for the first time since his initial approach. “Are you? Looking forward to it?” he asked with a fresh dose of awkward reservation. 

“Yea I am.”

Charles smiled again through his squint. His gaze was heavy-lidded, almost dreamy, and for a few silent beats, they just looked at each other. The comfort that lived in those wordless moments was terrifying. Now, Erik thought with a burst of confusion laced anger, _this_ is a nightmare. He wanted to flee. To make up some excuse. Get out of line. Stand in some darkened alley and berate himself; maybe kick a trash can. 

But as Erik glanced behind him, finally tearing his eyes away from the still-seated man, he saw that a line had begun forming. Be a person, he thought. Act like a normal human that can talk to strange men with ethereal gazes and almost translucent skin. 

Erik shook his head, banishing the thought. When he looked back, now determined to interact like a tactful grownup, Charles was still looking up at him, the gears turning in his head, eyes alight with something that perplexed Erik. 

To break the not-uncomfortable silence, Erik croaked out, “So, what else is in your top 5?”

And to his surprise, he actually wanted to hear the answer.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the homestretch, guys.  
> Thanks again to everyone following along.  
> I know WIPs can be risky, and I appreciate the faith :)  
> My personal life is a bit wacky right now, but I am dedicated to this story and I will see it through. These two deserve to be happy ;)

“A scotch and soda please.”

Charles shot a gleaming grin at the harried girl behind the bar. She looked like a frantic child. Her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, wispy tendrils untamed by the humid air. Her cheeks were bright red with the flush of someone at their wits end. She looked both beaten and impassive; enraged and forlorn. Charles had no idea why he was dissecting this bartender so thoroughly. Especially given the fact that he was seated next to Erik Lehnsherr.

They had attended every one of the same screenings that first day. When Charles told Moira this tidbit, she gasped in the most undignified way, mouth hanging open, eyes Disney Princess wide. “That doesn’t happen!” she gushed breathlessly. Then she mumbled something about fate and kismet and referenced a movie with Catherine Zeta-Jones and promptly went on a rant about the declining quality of John Cusack films. Occasionally Charles wondered how it was they could be so different, yet get along so famously. 

Once she’d gotten down off her “High Fidelity” soapbox (“That film is about stalking!”), Charles managed to squeeze in a follow-up question. “Is it really that unheard of?” For a moment Moira looked befuddled, as if she’d somehow lost track of the conversation. “Seeing the same person at five movies?”

“Yes!” she yelled. “Yes! That is bizarre! Unless you planned it.” Moira did the head tilt thing she’d apparently adopted, deep in thought. “Did you plan it?”

Charles huffed, simultaneously frustrated and a bit thrilled by the serendipitous turn the day had taken. Really, he _couldn’t_ have planned it. It was too perfect. 

Erik had said “hi” to him. _He’d_ said “hi” to _him_. It was all Charles could do not to pass out. As it was, he had felt like melting into the pavement. His legs had frozen, and he felt foolish plastered to the sidewalk like some kindergartener, but he couldn’t get up. His body had rebelled. So he just sat there. 

But then as pulse pounding as the initial syllables had been, it was suddenly easy. Two chums chatting about film. Two buddies shooting the breeze. Two amigos bickering about the editing in “Django.” It was _friendly_. 

And that’s how the first two days had gone. They’d sort of bump into each other in line, discuss the previous film, frantically flip through their schedules, then go their separate ways. Charles would never be so presumptuous as to _assume_ they would be sitting next to one another. So once they entered the building, they drifted apart like untethered ships.

On the second morning. Charles had scurried down the street, still aware of the sleep creases tattooed on his face, only to see Erik already standing outside of his first film.

Charles had tucked his badge into his sweater and zipped it up. He wasn’t _hiding_ it so much as he wasn’t _showing_ it. He’d explained to Moira that those are two totally different things. Moira had explained that lying through omission was still lying. Then Charles had corrected her, Kate Beckinsale was in the movie about serendipity, Zeta-Jones was in “High Fidelity.” Moira proceeded to argue that was in fact Minnie Driver he was thinking of. Charles, astounded that Moira would ever question the breadth of his John Cusack knowledge, was then forced to bring up IMDb on his phone just to prove that _she_ was now thinking of “Grosse Point Blank.” This is why Charles had only gotten four hours of sleep, because Moira couldn’t keep her non-American brunette co-stars straight. 

But even in his sleep-deprived haze, his heart fluttered when Erik turned around and smiled at him. It was a genuine “I’m happy to see you,” smile. It made crinkles form at the sides of Erik’s eyes. Charles wanted to reach up and smooth them with the pads of his fingers.

Charles had four movies on his itinerary that day. At four completely different theaters. He and Erik were at all four together. By the third, Charles felt daring enough to point it out. As he sidled up to Erik in line, he spat out in an attempt to be humorous, “you have really good taste.”

Erik had turned at the sound of his voice, something close to suspicion contorting his features. He mumbled a hello, but then followed it up with, “Did you check my schedule?” 

Charles hadn’t been entirely clear on what he was asking so a cracked, “Pardon?” escaped his mouth.

“Online. On the Twinge site. I posted my schedule.”

He had to be kidding. Charles was face to face with his jaw-droppingly handsome sort-of nemesis. Why would he bother lurking online when he could just turn to his left and stare?

Charles had played it cool when Erik had revealed who he wrote for. “Ah, yes,” he’d said casually, “same as Darwin. It’s a lovely site. Lots of fine writers.” And he could tell Erik was looking for a similar admission. But Charles had steered the conversation towards Moira and their initial meeting in collage. It hadn’t come up again. So Charles didn’t mention it. It wasn’t _really_ lying. By omission or otherwise.

But when Erik had asked that question, it was more of a “are you stalking me?” then a “hey what a coincidence!” And Charles though he’d been found out. Although, at this stage, he wasn’t entirely sure what exactly he was hiding. His name? His affiliation? His affinity for Russell Crowe? He simply didn’t want to be that “moron” from the interwebs here. Here he was being treated like Erik’s equal. Well, he had been until being accused of tailoring his own schedule in order to creep on another man. 

So Charles, as unruffled as he could mange, simply stated the truth, “Of course not. I made my schedule weeks ago.” Then he let out a laugh that Erik joined in on. Their self-conscious, slightly self-deprecating chuckles bled together until they were transformed into something natural, if still wholly confusing. 

Then it was a back to movies and easy conversation. And he was Erik’s equal again. They matched wits and rolled eyes, and the sarcasm pooled at their feet, forming a moat, separating them from the rest of the world. It was gloriously catty and cut off. And Charles adored it. 

Then today, while in line for the fourth and last film, Charles’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He almost ignored it. Erik was on a tear about the CGI blood featured prominently in a movie from earlier. Charles was waiting for him to take a breath so he could wedge in an agreement and mention the equally ghastly CGI snake. But then Erik’s phone chimed from the pocked of his jeans. He slid it out and peered at the screen. Charles took the opportunity to do the same.

“Darwin,” Erik offered in explanation. 

“Moira,” Charles returned.

“He’s at the big premiere thing.”

“The one with Olivia Wilde? That’s where Moira is, too.”

“I thought it was Olivia Munn.”

“No. I’m positive it’s Wilde.”

“Are you sure?”

“Believe me, Erik. You do not want to travel down this path with me,” Charles warned with mock aggravation. 

Erik smiled genuinely, warmly, and Charles’s stomach did a flip. It sounded like waves were crashing against his eardrums. He almost dropped his phone.

“So Darwin’s at the thing with someone named Olivia. Wants to meet at the bar afterwards.”

“Yea, Moira too.”

And then they had just stood there, palming their cell phones. Charles tried to convince himself he was imagining the weight of the silence, the tangibility of the thing going unsaid. One of them was going to have to say it. _Not_ saying it was more conspicuous then just getting it over with.  
“We should walk over together. After our movie.” Erik had said it. And he had also said “our movie.”

Charles’s could feel his grin moving towards that of escaped lunatic. He wore that very same grin now, as they sat side by side, leaning heavily on the old oak bar.

“How do you not ‘believe’ in auteur theory?” Erik was yelling above the din.

“I have a brain in my head. And I use it. That’s how!”

Erik scoffed. “So Hitchcock wasn’t an auteur? Kubrick,” he said the name as if it were holy, “isn’t? You’re mad, Charles.”

“They are masters, sure. ‘Paths of Glory’ is a master work. I just don’t subscribe to the idea that a director’s film _belongs_ to that director.”

“That’s not what it _means_ though, Charles! You’re a smart guy. You surely see the unmistakable hallmarks of certain _auteur’s_ films.”

“Of course I do.” They were both a bit drunk. If Charles had been more aware, he surely would have picked up on being called a “smart guy,” and promptly stopped talking in fear of saying something stupid. Instead, warmed by booze and easy debate, he powered on. “But to deny that the other people involved helped shape the film? That’s ludicrous. And, I think it’s worth noting that both men you mentioned had a fondness for collaborating with the same people over and over again.”

“But it’s about the director’s voice! Throw whoever else you want into the mix. The voice of the person in charge—”

“Alma Hitchcock!” Charles yelled. 

“What?”

“Perfect example.” Charles was ever so pleased with himself. His chest was puffed and he was beaming. “Without Alma, there’d be no Alfred.”

Erik’s mouth was half open, a retort marinating in the back of his throat, when suddenly Charles felt a hand on his shoulder. 

He then heard Darwin’s voice snake around Erik’s head. “It ran late. Sorry guys.”

Charles twisted in his seat in order to see if the owner of the hand clamped onto his shoulder was, in fact, Moira. It was, and she smiled at him mischievously.

“But look,” Darwin added from the dead zone behind Erik. “I finally found Angel.”

Everyone was too close and he and Erik were being crowded back into the bar. The blunt edge of the wood was digging into Charles’s ribs, his forearm pressed into Erik’s. Suddenly there were too many people, and a youngish looking blond appeared beside the petite woman that was next to Moira.

“Angel. Alex.” Erik nodded at each of the new faces. They both swiveled their heads in unison to look at Charles. Too much was happening at once. Moira squeezed his shoulder; Erik’s arm pressed down on his own; the man, Alex, shifted restlessly off to the side; it was too loud yet all at once it was like their little bubble became a vacuum. 

“Charles Xavier,” he said, extending his hand to no one in particular.

It was only when he felt Erik tense beside him that he realized he’d said his full name for the first time. And Erik recognized it.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Sorry, guys. Terrible, awful life things happened and kept me away from this fic. It saddens me deeply. But I'm back! So here's the next chapter!  
> <3

“It’s the internet guy.”

“Who is what internet guy?”

“Stop being so God damned infuriatingly coy, Emma! It isn’t cute!”

“Darling, I assure you, for once I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

Erik paced violently through the apartment. He had rushed in, the door slamming against the wall, crashing closed. He could still taste the stale beer on his tongue. He raked his teeth over the raised taste buds, desperately trying to excise the lingering flavor.

His fingers curled around the cell phone with a grip so tight he could hear the case creak. “Charles from the fest? Is cinemaXdoctor. From the comments.”

“Oh.” Emma paused. “Well, that’s a funny coincidence,” she said blithely. 

“Is it, Emma? Is it _really_?”

“I certainly think so.” The silence stretched out, the tiny crackling sounds of their poor connection were suddenly deafening.

“What am I supposed to do?” Erik’s voice was pinched and distraught. 

“Back up, sweetness. What happened?”

Erik exhaled deeply, like he’d been holding his breath. “We were at the bar. And then he just said his name. And I _knew_ , I just _knew_ , immediately, it was him.”

“And what did he say?”

Erik was quiet again. For so long that Emma pulled her phone away from her ear to make sure the call hadn’t dropped.

“Erik? What did he say? Why didn’t he tell you?”

“I didn’t ask him.”

“Oh.” Emma spoke it softly, but Erik could almost hear the exclamation point that followed. “Well, may I ask what you _did_ say?”

There was a muffled groan from Erik’s end, and Emma could hear the cell phone scraping against something, perhaps his skull. “I said I was tired.”

“Hmm. That’s an interesting choice, dear.”

“What was I supposed to say!” Erik was unusually shrill. Exclamatory statements were not uncommon; he just wasn’t typically this distressed when he made them.

“I can’t tell you that, hun. But I don’t think saying nothing was the correct plan of attack.” She waited for a reply, then added, “Is it really that big of a deal?”

“Yes!” he shouted with no thought. 

“Can I ask why?”

“Because the cinema doctor is a moron and I really like—” He stopped mid-sentence, his breathing ragged. 

“You really like Charles.”

“Oh God!” His guttural moan echoed through the empty room. “Why do I like Charles!”

“Erik, you are a mystery. I simply can not answer this.”

“I don’t like anyone,” he spat out miserably. 

“I understand this, and I will also assume present company is excluded. So, let me ask again, is this really a big deal?”

“Yes.” But Erik couldn’t counter with any kind of explanation. He just felt like it should be. 

“I think you need to talk to him.”

“Can’t I just pretend not to recognize him tomorrow?”

“Do you honestly think that’s a viable option?” Erik could hear her eyes roll.

“Or maybe… Maybe I can just pretend this night didn’t happen.”

“And what, pray tell, would be the benefit of that?” 

Erik dragged his free hand over his face, pausing to scratch lightly at his scruff. “There is none I guess…”

“What’s today’s date?”

“Huh?” Erik wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. It was almost midnight. Why would Emma be asking the date?

“It’s the 9th, right?”

“Yea… yea it is,” he replied shaking away the disorientation. “Why?”

“Well it’s a big day for me. I want to mark it in my calendar: Erik listened to reason.”

“You’re a piece of work, Frost.”

She grinned, Erik was sure of it, he could almost see her vulpine smile across the miles that separated them. “You should listen to me occasionally, I’m a very sensible woman. And you should talk to your festival crush.” Erik huffed at her phrasing, but she marched on. “You clearly like him, Erik. Follow your gut.”

“Yeah… sure…” he muttered.

“Darlin’,” the tone she summoned was that of a warning, “if _you_ can’t tell me why this is a big deal, I must assume it actually _isn’t_ a big deal. Stop pawing at excuses.”

Erik didn’t reply because there was nothing to say. Emma was infuriating. She was also completely right.

He mumbled a resigned “good night,” and practically threw himself on the couch.

Did it matter, he wondered, staring up at the ceiling fan. Sure it did. 

Right? 

And as Erik lay sprawled on his back, the heat from where Charles’s arm had pressed reassuringly into his own still burning, he wasn’t so sure anymore. 

Charles was kind, and funny, and smart, and infuriatingly opinionated. But he _had_ opinions; he could back them up and hurl verbal grenades with the best of ‘em. He could keep up with Erik. He could make Erik laugh. 

Suddenly, instead of thinking about all the reasons real life Charles was just as obnoxious as the internet guy Erik had fleshed out in his mind, he was thinking about the man’s pristine skin. The way his eyes lit up when he got excited. The playful lilt to his voice when he was teasing. Suddenly, Erik lay sprawled on his back thinking about all the reasons he wanted to latch on to Charles and keep him forever. 

Adrenaline coursed through his veins. It was tinged with fear and desire, but it made him feel alive in a way he rarely did. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because Charles was the guy from the internet, and Charles was wonderful. And that trumped everything else.

Erik would tell him. He would tell Charles he was wonderful. And he would apologize—

Dread swept over him like a cloud passing in front of the sun. He had been a jackass to the internet Charles. He had been an aggressive curmudgeon and he was ashamed. How could he meet those two shimmering pools of blue that inhabited the spheres of Charles’s eyes? What a fool. Erik’s cheeks were hot with regret and abashment. How could he proclaim to a man he’d known for three days that he was sorry, that he was greater than the sum of his internet persona?

Erik had dug out a deep hole, and as the blades of the fan above him _whooshed_ around softly, he wanted to bury himself in it.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. Sorry this chapter is so super short. I really want to finish this one out, and I apologize for abandoning you all!  
> (Life stuff. It's mostly bad and this isn't the place for it but yay for being back!)

“He hates me.” Charles said it into his pillow, but it was directed at Moira.

She was perched on the edge of his bed, struggling to remove his shoes. “Honey,” she grunted as she teetered back, nearly smashing herself in the face with his casual brown leather footwear. “You’re overreacting.”

“Am I? Am I really, Moira?” His voice was wet and drooly as he shouted, mouth full of comforter. 

“He said he was tired and left.”

Charles turned his face to the side, sucking in a deep breath. “He made an excuse and ran from the bar with nary a goodbye or goodnight to the flock of his friends.” He pushed himself up and twisted onto his side. “He did this after I vomited my dumb name all over the place. ‘I’m Charles Xavier, gossip rag journalist and all round idiot.’” He mocked his own foolishness with a thick, put-on English accent. 

“So he left. Worse case scenario? You’re right. He recognized your name.”

“Yes, Moira, that is the worst case scenario. Because why in the hell would my _name_ send him running?” Charles flung himself at the bedspread once more, “he hates me” mumbled miserably into the tacky fabric.

Moira gasped. She exhaled and squeaked in the most undignified but endearingly childlike manner. “He doesn’t hate you,” she proclaimed, rising to her feet. “There’s only one explanation, Charles. Don’t you see? It’s perfect. It’s sublime. It’s absolutely, 100% the most—”

“Damn it, Moira, what? Out with it already!”

She snapped out of her lovey dovey haze, the cartoon hearts almost visible as they popped around her head. “He doesn’t hate you, silly! He _likes_ you.”

Charles was stunned into silence, and Moira gladly filled up the space. “Think about it. He reacted to your name. He fell all over himself to get out of there. A minute before that he was practically plastered to your side.” Charles frowned, but she ignored him. “And the fact that he even knew your name? That’s something, right? I bet he sort of had a thing for pompous can’t-we-all-just-get-along online you too. Ohmygod, Charles, he is totally into you.”

“This is madness. You know that, right?” But even as he voiced his dissent Charles had to tamp down the smile threatening to bloom across his pouting lips. “There’s no way he could—”

Charles was cut off by the shrill squawk of his cell phone as it cried out from the bedside table. He glanced over, expecting to see “Raven” blinking up at him. He was surprised to find the letter “E” flashing instead. 

“It’s him!”

“Who him? Wait, _him_ him? How did he get your number?”

Charles bit at the skin inside his mouth as his eyes raced from Moira’s neck to his own knees. “I think I put my number in his phone and then called myself from his phone and then saved his number in my phone. I think. When he was in the bathroom. I think.”

“You _think_?”

“I had had a few drinks! I was feeling bold! And this was before he hated me! I was going to ask him out.” Charles clamped his hand over his mouth, eyes wide. “I was going to ask him on a proper date before I mucked everything up!”

“You realize he’s calling you, right? Well, he was.”

Only then was Charles aware he’d rambled over the ringing phone, missing the call entirely. “Why was he calling me? What time is it? Why would he be calling me? Should I call him back?”

Moira’s eyes narrowed, hands folded primly over her dainty knees. “Do you know where he lives?”

“How would I—wait. No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to suggest!”

“Moira!” he breathed out in a scandalized gasp. “You want me to go over there? That’s absurd.”

“Why? Did he leave a message?”

Charles glanced down at his phone. “No.”

“Well,” she replied matter-of-factly, her own slim cell lightly grasped, fingers sliding gracefully over the surface. “He probably thinks you hate him.”

“What? Why? What?”

“Think about it,” she said, still preoccupied with her mobile device. “He called you a moron, treated you like some no-nothing internet dummy, and when he realized it, he ran away.” She raised an eyebrow, glancing in Charles’s direction.

“And when you put it that way…” he trailed off.

“Yes, when I put it that way, you have every reason to loathe that smug jackass.” Charles cleared his throat deliberately and she added, “Smug and well-meaning. Oh, and hot as hell.”

“Should I call him back?” Charles asked meekly.

“No.” Charles’s phone made a single beep. “That’s me. And that’s his address.”

Charles gaped, mouth hanging open like a gasping guppy. “How did you…”

“I texted Darwin,” she shot back. “Don’t give me that look,” Moira said as Charles began to give her a look. “No one cares, Charles. He’s hot, you’re you—”

“I’m me! What does that mean?”

“Fine,” she huffed. “You’re hot too. I guess. But you’re also like my awkward cardigan wearing cousin or something.” She shuddered and mumbled “hot” under her breath, shaking her head ever so slightly.

Charles eyed the message from Moira. “So, I just go over there?”

“Yup.”

“Uh. OK.” Charles stood, lengthening his spine with a single stretch. “OK,” he repeated with more conviction.

“Wow. Really?”

He wilted immediately under Moira’s incredulous response. “Should I not?” A note of terror edged into his tone. 

“No! Yes! I mean, do it! I’m just surprised. Go get your man!”

Charles knitted his eyebrows together and stomped to the hotel door. He slid his shoe back on then whispered a nervous “wish me luck” as the lock clicked back into place behind him.


End file.
